France's Secret Folder Number 5
by StarrNight
Summary: Unbeknownst to England, France has been keeping a memoir of all of his drunken antics for the past five hundred years. Following a change in England's relationship status, France decides to revisit the past. USUK, slight FrUK and lots of French perviness!
1. The Secret Folder

_This is audience testing for a new fic! If you want to read more, please review and say so, otherwise I'll scrap it and go on to another story!_

"_Hey Fever" sparked this idea in my mind…it's the revelation of France's secret files of England's drunken antics! _

_Introduction refers to "Hey Fever," but the rest of the story won't. _

_Enjoy!_

France's Secret Folder #5

By Starry

Chapter One: France's Historical Hobby

France considered himself a man of many talents. He could cook, he could make wine, he could play instruments, he was charming, he had the body of a god…in his humble opinion, the list went on and on. Most of his talents were well-known (and envied, of course) by the other countries, but he made it a point to keep one of his skills to himself; he had a photographic memory. Looking back over the years, he could easily recall any date that he chose and replay the events in his mind. The day he first met the Holy Roman Empire, for instance, was as clear to him as the events of just this morning. What a sullen little boy with big blue eyes! What a sad turn his life took! After all this time, he still didn't know that he…no, that's enough.

France was also good at keeping secrets (when he wanted to, which was rare). The Holy Roman Empire's story was his own to tell. At the present, sitting in his living room and sipping fine merlot wine, he was far more interested in his long-time frenemy, England. His history with the island country traced far, far back…and France remembered every bit of it. What a ridiculous country, England. So pert, so stubborn...so adorable! France chuckled a bit as he swirled the wine in his glass.

He'd never had eyes for France, despite all of the latter's attempts. He never would, either, judging by the call France received some mornings ago from Canada. "Bonjour," France had said, picking up the telephone receiver.

"Ah! France, eh! I am so sorry to bother you…"

"Non! You never bozzer me. Zpeak what iz on your mind."

"I was just…I saw…and I wondered…"

France's scandal senses began to tingle. "What? What did you zee?"

Canada hesitated. "It's just…are America and England…are they…are they _together_?"

"What? What makes you ask zis question, Matthieu?"

More hesitation. "It's just…well, I went to America's house this morning and…well, England was there…"

France lit a cigarette. "Zat means nozzing. He eez zere often."

"Yes, that's true…but he was making breakfast…"

"More scary zan scandalous…" France blew smoke at the phone.

"…and he was naked."

Silence. "And Amerique? What was he wearing?"

"Oh…I'd really rather not say."

France grinned. "Ah. Eez zat so. I will investigate. Zank you for ze notice."

"Wait…you didn't really answer my-" Canada's voice was cut off as France hung up the phone and jumped out of bed. What news this was! Finally! He spent the rest of the day surreptitiously asking other countries questions about England's recent behavior, none of which yielded any results except for Germany, who admitted he'd had a strange encounter with the Brit, during which England had announced that he must be allergic to America because he had begun to feel different around him.

What an idiot. Mistaking love for allergies, honestly! But still! It had happened! It had finally happened! England had realized his feelings for America! It had only taken two hundred years! France wished the two nothing but well when they announced it earlier today at the World Conference. Now that the excitement had died down, France had time to sit down and reflect on England and how long it had taken him to reach this point in his life.

He strolled into his study room, pulled a fragile golden key from his shirt pocket, unlocked a closed bookcase, and swung it open. Folder upon folder of files were lined up inside, each with its own label written in flawless cursive. France's fingers danced down the rows until he found the one he was looking for: file number five. One of his very favorites! He tucked it under his arm and walked back into the den, where he sat himself down on an expensive rug and emptied the papers in the file onto the floor. Each paper contained a few lines of writing, just enough to jog France's memory. Some of the more recent ones had a photograph attached-those were the best.

This file was one of France's pride and joys. Contained in it were pages and pages of memories of England's antics, most of which involved the consumption of alcohol. Inside were pictures, drawings, transcripts of conversations, all pulled from France's perfect memory. For hundreds of years now, he'd been watching England get drunk and do ridiculous things, then writing it down for perusal later. Most of the time England did not remember what he'd done, but oh, France did! And it was all written here! _Mon dieu_ he was a genius!

This was his hobby-recording history as he saw it. More specifically, recording the history England conveniently left out of his biographies. My, but England would have a litter of kittens if he ever saw these! Maybe they'd make a good wedding present to America. _Tres amusant!_

Using both hands, he shuffled the papers around on the floor so he could reach his hand in and draw one out at random. It had been far too long since he'd looked at these, and he could use the entertainment. He felt around, took hold of a page, and held it in front of his face.

_Oh hon hon hon! This is a good one!_

oOoOo

_Next up: Secret File #1_


	2. The Passing

_Yay for college destroying all of my writing time! _

_But seriously, here you go!_

_Please review because it makes me happy!_

**File #1: The Passing of Hollyhock**

"It's 3:30, da?" Russia asked quietly, pointing at a clock on the wall on the far side of the room. China, France, and America turned their heads to look at it, then turned back to the table. The four men were silent, listening to the tick of the passing seconds.

"I'm sure he's alright. He's just late. Maybe he spilt some tea or something." America swung his feet up onto the table and began to whistle "Yankee Doodle," one of his nervous habits. "We need him here so he can sign our new trade agreement."

France shook his head. "Amerique. Please refrain from putting your dirty shoes on ze table. I imported zis all the way from Paris. You are a zavage zometimes." America frowned ut moved his feet. The whistling, however, continued, and the other Allies exchanged looks of irritation. "Amerique, if you are zat worried, why do you not go try to find him?"

With another glance at the clock, America pulled himself to his feet. "Yeah, I'm gonna go check on him."

"I'll go wiz you," France volunteered. The two headed for the door.

China called after them. "Ah! Do not leave me here alone with Russia, aru!" He stood up and stretched out a hand towards the door, but the two had disappeared. Russia chuckled darkly beside him and he sat down heavily.

"You're not alone, China, I'm here," Canada mumbled from down the table. No one responded and he sighed and buried his head in his arms.

The fluffy white bear beside his chair pawed his leg. "Who are you?"

Canada stared at him sadly, then hid his face again. "I'm Canada!" He looked at Russia, who was scooting closer to China at the table, and buried his face in his sleeves again. "this is all America's fault, eh?" he muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric.

oOoOo

America hesitated before knocking on the rich wood of England's front door. "England? Are you there?"

Footsteps shuffled past the door and disappeared down the hall. "No! I'm not home!"

"Open the door, England! We just want to check on you!" America said loudly.

"Go away!" came the reply.

America rolled his eyes, relieved that England was at least alive and seemingly healthy, then pulled a key from his pocket. "I made a copy of his house key when he wasn't looking," he explained to France before inserting it into the door and unlocking it. The two entered the house and were instantly hit by the smell of gin. "Oh, no," America groaned. "England! Where are you?"

England popped out of a room to their right, clutching an open water bottle. "How the bloody hell did you get in here?" He then noticed France. "And who brought the frog? You're the last person I want to see right now, so go away!"

"You missed our Allies Meeting and my cool presentation about the global spread of McDonalds!" America explained to England's back, as he had turned away from his visitors. "We got worried about you."

"Well, I'm fine and I'd appreciate it if you'd go away!" England's voice sounded unusually thick all of a sudden and his shoulders hunched over.

France had heard that before. "Angleterre, are you crying?" America gave a start and leaned, trying to see England's face. "What iz going on?"

America pulled on England's shoulder, turning him around and revealing trails of tears down his face. "Yes! You found me!" England gulped. "Today is a terrible day and I'm not interested in your bloody meeting!"

"What happened?" America asked, aghast.

England took a swig from his water bottle (which was not filled with water) and weaved a bit. "I don't want to tell you! You'll laugh at me!"

"No, we won't! I swear!"

A pause, then England said, "Fine! If you really must know…Hollyhock died this morning! She was so young and she didn't deserve that!" He broke into fresh tears and patted the air. "There, there, Flying Mint Bunny, I know she was your best friend…she was important to me too…"

America and France watched awkwardly as he gulped and hugged the air. "Who is, er, _was_ Hollyhock?"

"She was a sprite."

"Sprite? Like the soda?"

"No! The fairy-like creature, you useless clod! Don't disrespect her name by comparing her to your unhealthy carbonated beverages!" England scowled at America.

Both America and France were nonplussed. "So…a fairy died?" America asked.

"A sprite."

"So…a sprite died?"

"Not just any sprite. Hollyhock."

"So…Hollyhock the sprite died?" America asked. By way of answer, England just looked at America and his eyes filled with tears again. He lurched forward and began to hug the air again. "Alright, I'm done. I don't get it," America remarked.

France pulled America to the side. "You must be careful with Angleterre in this matter. He zeez zings zat we do not."

"So he's delusional?"

"Yes."

"Oh," America looked at the sobbing England. "That explains a lot." They stared at England a little longer. "So what do we do? We still need him for our trade agreement."

England interrupted from across the room. "HOLLYHOCK! OH, GOD, WHY?"

France inched further away from England. "I zink we should humour him."

"Humour him?"

"Oui." He jerked his head towards the Brit, motioning for America to follow him. He slowly approached England with his hands folded in front of him. "Angleterre…Amerique and I offer you our deepest condolences for your loss of zis Hollyhock." Silence. He turned and glared at America.

"Right. We're sorry. Really sorry."

England snuffled and looked at the two suspiciously. "What are you two on about? You're never cared about my friends, either of you!" He took another swig of gin and his eyes began to be distinctly unfocused.

"And how deeply do we regret our rash actions! Our only desire is to be your truest support on zis sad day," France said, coming up beside England, putting an arm around his waist and holding his hand up to his chest.

America quickly and rudely inserted himself between France and England, breaking the hand-holding before England even had the chance to swear at the Frenchman. "Yeah, that's right. Tell you what. I have an idea! Let's have a memorial service for Hemlock."

"Hollyhock," England corrected, glaring at America and weaving slightly.

"That's what I said."

"No, it isn't!"

France used his hip to shove America out of the way and worked himself beside England again, once more taking his hand. "Ignore ze poor zavage," he said soothingly. "He has not been trained in ze way of ze gentleman like you and I." America angrily tried to regain his position at England's side, but was swiftly dispatched by a backwards kick from France that connected with his shin. Tears of pain in his eyes, he hobbled to England's other side. "All ze same, he has a good idea."

"Y-yeah," America replied, still rubbing his shin. "We could light a candle and say a prayer." Seeing France still holding England's hand, he awkwardly snatched up England's other hand.

England's lower lip shook. "You chaps would do that for me? I don't know what to say!" He tried to reach for his bottle of gin, but was rebuffed by the fact that France and America were currently fighting over his hands. This might have bothered him on any other day, but in his current state, he ignored it. "Alright, let's."

"I shall lead Angleterre outside and we shall find a suitable gravesite. Amerique, make yourself useful and go find some flowers!" France ordered, pulling England closer to him.

America shook his head and tugged on England's other arm. "No way! I'LL take him outside and YOU can find the flowers." France, in reply, gave him such a terrifying glare that he dropped his hold on England. "Fine, fine, I'll go." As France led England towards the back door, America dashed out the front door and stopped on the front porch. Where could he find funeral flowers at such short notice. He set off running towards the southeast, determined to complete his mission before France could pull off any perverted shenanigans. He ran until he was out of breath (which took a while, considering his breakfast of Big Macs and oreo McFlurries) and then placed his hands on his knees. He had been surrounded by bushes of random flowers for a few minutes, but as he had brought nothing to cut the tough stems with, he was at a loss as to how he could return with a bouquet. Still, he was a hero and heroes certainly weren't defeated so easily. He set his face and ventured on.

Meanwhile, France had seated England on a rock outside in the backyard and was surveying the land. "Did you have a particular burial spot in mind?" he asked.

England, still clutching his gin bottle for dear life, pointed drunkenly to a tall willow tree. "I thought mayhaps we could make a bit of a memorial under that tree. It was her favorite," he slurred, spacing out.

The two walked over to the tree together and stared at the ground. England kicked at tufts of grass with his feet, starting a small hole. France noticed a small tool shed nearby and figured that he could find a shovel inside. He had, however, just buffed his nails and did not relish the idea of digging in England's rocky ground. Fortunately for him, America burst on to the scene at that moment, clutching something that was shedding dirt with every step the young country took. "The hero's back! Hope you guys didn't start without me!" America bounded over to the tree and stepped between France and England, pushing his glasses further up on his nose.

"Amerique, what in ze heavens is zat?" France asked, looking disdainfully at the scraggly plant in America's hand.

America held it up proudly. "I brought roses!"

"Zose are not roses. Zat is a bush."

"Yeah, duh," America retorted. "A ROSE bush. For roses."

"Zere aren't even any roses on it!" France yelled, getting frustrated with America's lack of propriety.

"There will be one day!" America yelled back. England started crying afresh beside America and he dropped the bush to fling his arms around England. "Don't cry! Let's just start the ceremony." England snuffled and nodded. France began to prepare his eulogy.

"Hollyhock. Brave sprite and friend to us all. Sleep in everlasting peace. Watch over us from above and be by our sides. Frolic in the heavenly fields above, sup on the nectar of eternity, and forget all of your worries. We here on Earth shall never forget you," A breeze ruffled the three countries' hair and a bee buzzed past, adding an idealized laziness to the late afternoon atmosphere. "nor shall the lessons you taught us go unheeded. Zank you, Hollyhock, for all of that which you were. Zank you."

Beside the hole that America had dug for a grave, the rosebush was planted in softer soil. Eulogy finished, France gave England one last grope and headed silently back home to wash the dirt off of his shoes. America continued to stand beside England, who was having difficulting standing upright. A few moments passed. "I got that rosebush for a purpose," America commented suddenly. "'cuz it'll bloom every year. If I'd picked flowers, they'd have just died, too." He continued to stare at the hole in the ground. "I didn't think you'd want that."

England looked up at America quickly, surprised. He then turned his head back to the hole and fingered the hem of the coat of his uniform absentmindedly. The two stood comfortably silent, feeling the fading rays of sunshine piercing their clothes. The air was fresh and clear and the only thing obscuring England's view was the gin. America patted his friend's back and turned quietly to leave, deciding to leave the unsigned trade agreement for another day. As he walked towards the garden door, he was stopped by a call from England.

"America," England said, turning after him and looking him straight in the eye from across the yard. "wait." He walked a few steps toward America, strangely steady. "Listen. I…that rosebush…I hope you know that I always…I just…I really…" he stopped and looked at the grass, shuffling his feet, then met America's blue eyes again. "just…thank you, America. Thanks. For a lot of things."

The two stood looking at each other for a while, then America smiled, nodded, and continued on his way. _I still don't know who freaking Hollyhock is_, he thought to himself.

oOoOo

_If you're wondering how France knew all of that happened, he had stayed behind to watch them through the windows! He's so creepy! _


	3. The Time England Said Yes

_Yay chapter three! I really like this one. Like, really._

_I hope you do too!_

FILE #2: The Time England Almost Said Yes

Many, many years ago, before America was even a thought in any of the countries' minds, France and England co-existed just as uncomfortably as ever. Having grown out of their awkward adolescent phases, the two spent their time adjusting to the pressures of being fully-developed countries with all the surprises that came with it. France would like to imagine that he had made the transition as smoothly as the flow of his own fair hair, which was carefully cared for and styled, like his life. He filled his house with beautiful furniture and artwork and focused much of his energy on the small delights of life like music and food. Nearby (but eons away philosophically) England went about his practical daily business, often casting a critical eye at his southern neighbor. France largely ignored his snubs, chalking it up to mere (and very understandable) jealousy.

An almost constant stream of visitors, be they other countries or attractive young men and ladies, came and went through France's front door. He prided himself on being the apex of style and his house on being a _tres_ fashionable location to spend a day (or, preferably, a night.) Despite the large selection of desirable young adults all about, France often grew bored and turned his gaze to the northern island country, England. He would sit on his favorite window seat with a powerful telescope and watch England come and go through his front door. The other country rarely spent any time outside in the yard because of the almost constant rain over his house and, consequently, was rather pale and skinny.

This did not matter to France. He had extended invitation after invitation to England, trying to get him to visit his house, but it never did any good. England was adamantly disapproving of everything connected to France and scorned all forms of communication with him, unless it included sending letters filled with expletives across the ocean. _What a ridiculous nation_, France thought contemptuously, shredding yet another round of offensive correspondence from England that went something like this:

_Dearest Angleterre,_

_ I am writing to inform you that I am hosting a rather charming champagne social a fortnight from now and am inviting only the most premier countries. There will be plenty of hor d'oeuvres (including those salmon biscuits I know you favor) and fine wine for all. I respectfully ask that you honor me and all of my guests with your delightful presence. Do not worry about your unfashionable hair. If you arrive a few hours early, I would be available to restyle it for you._

_ Yours truly,_

_ France._

_P.S. I can not, however, do anything about your dreadful sense of style. I suggest going to a tailor sometime between now and then and NOT wearing that dreadful maroon waistcoat you are accustomed to. Also, pants are optional._

England's reply:

_Frog, _

_ Stop inviting me to your bloody nasty parties. You ought to know by now that I shan't go no matter what kind of crumpets you serve. You think your food is better but mine is just cracking the way it is, thank you very much! And sod off about my hair, it's very practical and attractive. Yours is ridiculous and if I were a bird, I'd make a nest and raise a bleeding family in it. And how did you know that I had a maroon waistcoat made? Are you watching me? You're a creepy wanker and you really ought not exist. _

_ Go away._

_ UK_

And then there was the time that France sent him a whole crate of some of his finest wines. He had expected no reply and was surprised when he received a single, small bottle of brandy in return. Elated, he enjoyed it with a fine fish dinner, but his relish was jaded when he found a tiny note affixed to the bottom of the bottle, reading: _Haha Frog I cursed this brandy!_ He was initially disturbed, but grew merely annoyed after a few days passed and nothing happened. What an utter ingrate.

No matter what, England just would not turn his eyes to France for even a passing moment. France did not feel particularly slighted, however, because England gave his attention to no one. Spain also spent time vying for his affections but eventually gave up as England showed him the same level of disinterest as he showed France, albeit without the venom. Prussia tried once, also, and was equally rebuffed. England did not care for company and kept to himself and his own business.

Such an unsociable fellow England was that France was shocked to find him sitting at a bar in Germany one clear night, clutching a mug of beer. It was pricey German beer, but it was still unusual to see England drinking anything other than tea or hard liquor. His head was resting on the bar beside the mug. France signaled to the bartender and lowered himself onto the bar stool beside the other country. England didn't raise his head as France sat silently, waiting for the bartender to bring him a Rue Cler. Once it was placed on the semi-polished wood, France picked it up and swirled it elegantly in his palm. He studied the back of England's head for a few moments, then spoke. "_Bonsoir_, Angleterre."

England slowly lifted his head, focused on France, and grunted. His hair was even more unruly than usual and his eyes were ringed with pink. "What do you want, Frog?" He asked, sounding more tired than France had heard him in a long time.

"I was merely wondering what a fine gentleman such as yourself was doing in a place like this?"

England grunted again. "Well, you're here too, so you can't think it's that bad. Unless you've been stalking me again. I thought I told you to stop that."

"It is not _stalking_, Angleterre, I am merely observing your behavior for ze purpose of learning more about you," France sniffed, sipping his cocktail.

"Right," England replied disapprovingly.

France sat back and really focused on England. "Now. Why are you really here?"

"Because I want to be."

"I hardly think you expect me to believe that."

England sat up straighter. "I wanted a bloody drink; what's so hard to believe about that? And why is it any of your business anyway?"

"I've known you for years, Angleterre. Zis isn't like you. Somezing is wrong." He frowned. "You're worrying me."

England's deep green eyes widened and his hand shook on his mug. His cheeks were already pink from the alcohol so any change of color was undetectable. He opened his mouth, shut it, took a big gulp from his mug, and mumbled "No, I'm fine."

"You know, you could always accompany me back home. I could make a fabulous dessert and we could chat in front of a warm, crackling fire," France crooned, leaning in to England. Even at a distance, he could smell the alcohol England had consumed. The closer he got, the more obvious it was that England was quite intoxicated. "I could make you feel better." His hand closed around England's wrist. The smaller country dropped his head and muttered something intelligible. "What, love?" France asked.

"Fine. I said fine," England mumbled more audibly.

France, still holding his wrist, sat back, shocked. "What? Did you just say yes?"

"Yes!" England yelled, "Fine! I'll go with you, you horrible, bloody frog!" He held the wrist that France still grasped up in front of his face. "Take me wherever you want! What does it matter? Do what you will with me…" His eyes bored into France's. "I shouldn't expect any better. I may as well get used to my lot in life."

This reaction was the furthest from what France had ever expected. He sat back and stared at England, dropping his smooth façade. When he really took time to inspect England, he was taken back in history to years before. England had matured, but he hadn't shown signs of true aging. He sat before France, still a milky-white specimen on the cusp between confused adolescent and defined adult. His eyes were big and tired, the skin on his face still soft and without wrinkles. The only thing that differentiated him from his teenage self was the way he knit his brows together more and the slight tightening of his lips. "Angleterre…are you _lonely_?" England France dropped his wrist and stood up, throwing some money on the table. "Come along. I'm going to take you back to your home."

England still sat, suspicion written on his face. "What are you on about? I thought you were going to make me fancy desserts in front of a crackling fire," he said sarcastically, refusing to rise.

"_Non_. Not tonight. Come," he said. "I'm taking you home." He held his hand out to England and waited until the latter rose stiffly and walked past him, ignoring the outstretched hand. France followed quietly. Dirt crunched under their feet as they walked on in the dark. England pulled his coat closer against the early spring cold. France stared straight ahead until they reached England's house. England walked up to the door and then turned around. "Do you want to come inside?" He asked thickly, his hand on the doorknob.

A moment of silence passed.

"_Non_," France said softly. "_Non_. You go on inside."

England lingered. "Well this must be a first for you, Frog." He shuffled his feet. "Why?"

France tugged at his beard gently. "One day, Angleterre, you are going to fall in love. I don't know who he or she will be but once it hits you it's never going to let go."

"Nonsense. I know all the countries and I don't fancy a one of them."

"Perhaps zey are not a country yet!"

"That's hogwash and you know it. There aren't any more countries to find! We know the whole bloody world!"

France just shrugged and walked backwards, away from England. "Maybe, Angleterre. Or maybe we don't know as much as we zink we know and zere are more countries out zere. Eizzer way, I just know zat…you are not going to be lonely forever." He had backed up almost all the way out of the drive and was shouting his words now. England watched him go, then went inside. He intended to think heavily upon what France had said, but fell asleep and forgot what had happened that night.

France watched him go back into his house and then leaned on his gatepost with a sigh. "Until zat day comes, I will not give up hope zat I will be zat person."

oOoOo

Interestingly enough, it was four years later to the day that England first set foot on North America and caught sight of a tiny mussed blonde head darting through the fields.

oOoOo

_Please review! Please please!_


	4. Just Another Night

_It's final season here at college and I'm dying but here you go!_

_Thank you soooo much for my reviewers! You inspire me!_

FILE #3: Just Another Night

Like on so many other nights of his life, France found himself at a bar, sitting across from a very drunk and belligerent England, listening to him rant and trying to convince him to come home with him. France sipped delicately on a large goblet of wine and nodded whenever England stopped rambling long enough to take a breath. "-and he had the audacity to tell me that my sense of humour is too dry! Too dry! That is ridiculous and he knows it-all he does is sit around and make jokes about bodily functions and such rot. What does he know about humour? He is not amusing in the slightest. He's childish and-"

France, amused, leaned back in his chair. "It sounds like you are not so fond of our dear Amerique."

England had gotten too warm earlier in the evening and had unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, displaying a small stretch of pale torso. As he leaned forward, his shirt gaped wider open and France snickered at the sight. "I don't know why you're laughing, Frog, it's not funny. I mean, I raised the bloody git since he was a lad and now that he's all grown up he thinks he can question everything I taught him."

"I was under the impression zat you were gone for most of his childhood," France commented, knowing full well what England's reaction would be.

Sure enough, England's eyes narrowed and he pointed at France with a fork. "Hogwash, that is. Utter nonsense. I was a smashing mentor. Besides, it wasn't my fault that every time I'd leave and come back, he'd have grown another foot taller! How was I supposed to bleeding know he'd grow so fast? Maybe if I'd known, I would have visited more often, but there is nothing I can do about it now. Stop trying to make me feel even more guilty about it than I already do." He slammed the fork back on the table and took a drink of the liquid in the tumbler before him.

"So you feel guilty?" France asked. "Interesting."

"Well…a wee bit, I suppose. Maybe if I'd been there more, he wouldn't have turned out to be such an enormous twat."

"Enormous twat? You really must not like him, Angleterre, I had no idea." France replied. England looked away and France continued. "Does he have any positive traits at all?"

England picked up the fork again and fiddled with it. "I suppose so. He's so bloody cheerful all the time. Makes me want to toss him in the rubbish bin. And he's so optimistic. Sometimes that's annoying…but I'm usually glad that SOMEONE thinks it is all going to be alright. That's comforting, you know?" He waited until France nodded before slowly continuing. "And he's got a good heart. He's thick as a plank and completely mental but he doesn't mean any real harm to anyone. I don't know, Frog. Don't ask me things like that," he mumbled, his face creasing in slight annoyance.

France smiled, loving this game he played with England whenever he drank. If he was kept talking long enough, England had the bad habit of admitting things that he didn't mean to. France would repeat England's own words back to him and the Brit would clarify them to the point where he let slip personal details and thoughts that he had tried to hide. Even now, sitting in the bar booth with his shirt partially undone, playing with a glass of brandy, the former pirate betrayed himself by glancing guiltily around the bar to see who might be listening. He had more on his mind and more to say. France sat back against the booth's backrest. All he had to do was wait.

England looked at him furtively, warily, then scrutinized the bar again. "Look, don't tell anyone, especially not that wanker, but I saw America shirtless a couple of months ago. I used to think he was strong back in the days of the Rev…well, when he was younger, but that was nothing! Abs, pecs, all of it. It's bloody ridiculous, that's what it is."

Interest now truly peaked, France sat forward. "Ooh, do tell! What did he look like? I want all ze delicious details!"

Leaning forward to match France's stance, the island country tried to lower his voice (however, his intoxication was to a level that he didn't notice that he was still speaking very loudly). "Dishy," he said confidentially. "That's right, you 'eard me. Dishy. He was trying to decide between two different shirts. One was blue and the other was green. I liked the blue one better. It was tighter. Anyway, he's got himself all tanned and rot…he spends so much time outside at his house, gets all that bloody sunshine. Nice ruddy skin…and you could see the top of his bleeding boxers over his jeans…red, white, and blue, they were."

"Angleterre…were you looking in his window?"

England sat back with a snap and pinked up. "No! Well, _technically_ yes, but I was just _walking past_ and he had the window wide open, anyone could've…it wasn't like I climbed his garden gate or…something like that…" He downed the rest of the brandy in front of him. "W-why do you care anyway, Frog, it's not like…I mean…it's just America."

About an hour ago, while England was ranting, France had noticed America enter the bar and sit on the other side with a comic book. He ordered a beer and seemed to be enjoying himself until the door opened again and Mexico walked in. As soon as she noticed America, she beelined over to his table and sat herself at it, causing America to put down his comics. She chattered happily to America, but whatever she was saying did not seem to sit well with the large country as he ordered drink after drink and shifted around uncomfortably. France had noted this and continued to listen to England prattle. Now, watching the man in front of him sweat under duress, he knew this night could end up being very entertaining. "Does Amerique know you are in ze habit of looking in his windows?"

"Eh? No, I mean…I'm sure he wouldn't mind. It's me, after all," England said, running his hands through his scruffy hair and looking not at all confident in what he was saying.

"I say we ask him, _oui_?"

"W-what? Like…call him? Now? He's probably asleep." The country looked stricken at the thought.

France pointed across the bar. "_Non_, he is right zere! Here, I shall call him over." England partially jumped across the table trying to stop him, but France fended his intoxicated attempt off and called out, "Amerique!"

America jumped up when he heard his name, happy to escape the conversation with the pretty but pushy Mexico. England saw him coming and tried to leave, but remembered that he couldn't actually walk all that well at the moment and sat back down again. America strode up to the table and beamed at them. "Howdy! What did you need from the Hero tonight? Anyone need saving?"

England shook his head feverishly, but France interjected. "Amerique, I was just wondering, how does it make you feel to know that Angleterre occasionally watches you dress?" England stopped breathing and silence hovered over the group for a few seconds.

"Er, what?" America asked.

"Angleterre was just complimenting ze shape your body is in. He said he saw it through your window and I just wanted to know how zat made you feel."

America looked at England. England looked at the ceiling. "Dude," America replied finally. "That is soooo creepy." England continued to look at the ceiling. "But totally understandable!" America burst forth. "I mean, it's true, I AM a hero and no one can resist a hero! I feel you, bro," he said, patting England's (who was now staring at the table) shoulder. "If I were you, I'd totally stare at me, too."

Mexico suddenly popped out from behind America. "What are we talking about?"

"Er, nothing." America replied, twitching away from her.

France volunteered the information. "We were discussing how Angleterre zinks Amerique is attractive."

Mexico lowered her voice and crooned, "Oooh, you're right. _Estadounidense_ _esta muy guapo, no?_" She raised a hand and stroked a finger down America's chest. America twitched again.

Finally, England raised his head. "Oi," he said loudly. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

"Don't say such things, Inglaterra, you know who I am. I'm Mexico," she said huffily.

France snapped his fingers. "You're ze one who keeps trying to move her stuff into Amerique's house, aren't you?"

America nodded. At the same time, Mexico shook her head. "No, that's not true! _Estadounidense_ is my fiancé."

England spat out the drink of water he'd just taken, America shook his head violently, and France uncrossed his legs in shock. "What?" he asked.

"Not true," America said quickly, brushing beads of water off of his pants from where England had spat his mouthful out.

After wiping his face, England reached for a wad of napkins with which to wipe the table, then turned to Mexico. "Don't say rubbish like that! Especially if it isn't true! Bleeding gave me a heart attack!" He attacked the puddles on the table, still glaring at the tanned country.

Mexico put her hands on her hips. "Okay, okay, it may not be true now. But you watch! It will be!" She tossed her hair and flounced off, calling over her shoulder, "You can not escape destiny, _mi amor_!"

The three left at the booth watched her go and then turned to each other, unsure of how now to proceed. "Amerique, I had no idea you were so popular," France commented, returning smoothly to his wine. America laughed weakly and started to slip away back to his comics.

England, whose head had been laying on the table ever since he cleaned up his water, stopped him. "So…you're not actually marrying her," he said, not lifting his head.

"No, definitely not," America replied, approaching the table once more. "we're just neighbors."

"Yeah, well," England paused, then lifted his head and glared at America. "stay away from her."

"What? Why?"

"Because I ruddy well said so, that's why!"

"England," America said, an odd look entering his eyes. "Do you like Mexico?"

The Brit stared at his former colony darkly. "Not even a little. She's…not my type."

"Pray tell," France interjected. "What is your type?"

"Certainly not you, Frog," England replied tartly.

France laughed. "Ah, you are so CHARMING, Angleterre, it a wonder you are SINGLE all ze time!"

"I'd rather be single than with the likes of you!"

"Hah! You are simply jealous of my hair! You've always been jealous of big brother!"

America leaned back and laughed. "Oh, you two! Always fighting like a married couple."

"Perfect! Angleterre! When Amerique marries Mexico, you must marry me and we shall have ze most elegant double wedding ever!" France got all starry-eyed thinking about it.

England, on the other hand, looked distinctly ill. "Sod off, you. That's still not funny. I'm going home." He stood on uncertain legs, but collapsed back in the seat.

America frowned. "You need help, there?" England scowled but allowed America to hoist him up and throw one of his arms over his shoulders. "Here…I'll take you home…"

Still calmly sipping wine, France smirked. "Better hurry. Mexico won't like it if you're home late, Amerique."

"Stop it!" England burst out. "It's not. Bloody. Funny!" He put a finger in America's face. "I forbid you from consorting with her anymore! No more, d'you hear me?"

"You can't exactly stop me," America replied, grinning. "After all, she does live next to me. Who do you think you are, my mom?"

As England hung off of America's shoulder and glared at him, the two found themselves nose to nose. America grew very still and only the loud chatter of the bar was heard. "Don't look at me like that," England said quietly.

"Why?" America inquired just as softly.

"Because I'm very drunk and I don't know what I'll do," the abashed island country replied.

America got closer and closer to England's face, France held his breath, and…England fell dead asleep on America's shoulder. After taking a moment to process this, America shrieked "You're kidding me! You. Are. KIDDING me. I was almost there! This always happens!" France, just as disappointed as America, had nothing to say and so just laughed. America slid an arm under England's knees and hoisted him up bridal-style. "I guess I'll just take him home anyway." He bid France goodbye, walked a few paces away, then wheeled back around. "Hey, He's not gonna remember this tomorrow…is he?" He asked, sadly.

France shook his head. "Not a chance."

America looked his sleeping companion in the face wearily and headed for the door again. This wasn't the first time, nor the last. It would pay off, he knew it. He'd keep waiting. He waited a long time.

oOoOo

_I'd be frustrated with England, too!_


	5. Why England's Cooking Never Improved

_Yay out for the summer!_

_NEW CHAPTER TIME!_

_Please review and I'll love you!_

FILE #4: England Cooks…Well.

It was well known among all the countries present (and also among most of the ones not present) at the world meeting that England could not cook. It was so well known, in fact, that no one bothered to make jokes about it anymore, as that was viewed by the other countries as reaching for the low-hanging apples on the joke tree. Germany had banned England's creations from the meetings ever since Italy made the mistake of biting into a torched English muffin which crumbled in his mouth. It took the small man back to the days of being a British captive and he wept for all the horrible puddings and gravies he encountered, disturbing the peace and effectively ending negotiations that day. Even under the threat of Germany's wrath, every so often England would slip in a plate of…well, no one could ever quite _tell_ what it was…and hope it would go unnoticed and perhaps be found to be ever so slightly appetizing by the group (It never was.)

Such was the case on this day. England rested his chin in his fist and alternated between trying to look aloof and uninterested in the discussion and eyeing the dish of curry he'd stuck on the table before the other countries arrived. It was nestled comfortably between a mound of sticky rice from China and salted cabbage from Russia (a popular vodka snack.) He was particularly proud of how it ended up next to the rice, because as people reached for the rice, they would be confronted with a delicious-looking dish of curry and think to themselves, "Gee, I should try some of that curry. I don't know who brought it, but I think it could be delightful!" Once one person tried it, he or she would tell whoever was next to him or her how tasty it was and then it could spread all around the table and soon every country would be jostling for a taste of the magical curry beside the rice. Eventually someone would ask who made this _exceptional_ food and, to the surprise of all present, nay, the _entire world_, England would stand up and take responsibility, thus clearing his name forevermore from the scourge of bad cooking. Why, even Italy would be impressed. England forgot to look detached from the situation and grinned, causing his head to slip off his hand, jerking him back to reality.

As it was, the entire meeting passed and still the curry remained untouched. Long after the other countries retired to their homes, England remained, leaning heavily on the table in shame, irked that he had once again failed at the art of cooking. And to think-France was so proud of his own culinary skills! Though England considered himself far above his competitor in all other aspects of life, this was one hurdle he just could not overcome. And he'd tried-oh, had he tried! After all this time, he still didn't understand what the problem was. Everything he made tasted just fine to him! Nothing too heavy…nothing too spicy…nice, simple, humble dishes that filled you up and left you satisfied. Flattened with the weight of defeat, England collected his curry off the table and headed home. This was ridiculous. Tonight was the night. Tonight he would cook something delicious no matter how long it took!

Standing in his kitchen, apron donned, cabinets flung open, England realized that he didn't know what he was doing. He needed a method to his madness. "Say, America, I have a nice shiny…er, hero's award I'll give you if you do me a favor," he found himself saying on the phone a few minutes later. Ever intrigued by the idea of getting an award (from his favorite person, no less), America arrived and sat at his former mentor's kitchen bar at six o'clock that night. "Listen. I need to do some cooking tonight," England explained to the big nation, wagging a wooden spoon in his face. "and you are going to help me."

America sighed happily. "Gosh, I'm sure glad you've decided to get some help. I have this GREAT recipe book from McDonald's that's called _One Hundred and Twelve Ways to Use Chicken Nuggets_ that I think could really solve some of-"

"No!" England rapped his companion smartly on the top of the head with his spoon. "I'm not interested in your fast food rubbish! I'm going to make real food!"

The big blonde rubbed his head. "Where am I supposed to come in, then?" he pouted.

"Well, someone has to taste the food, right? I mean, I'm obviously biased so I can't taste it myself."

"What?" America asked, his voice rising in pitch. "You want me to be your taste-tester? That wasn't what it sounded like on the phone!"

England glowered back. "You didn't give me time to explain on the phone, you great bumbling duffer! As soon as I said 'hero's award' you threw the phone down and ran here!"

"I was excited!"

"You can still be excited!"

"About what?"

"Trying my food!"

"You want me to be happy about suicide?"

England stood stock-still and glared at America through narrowed eyes. "Fine. Get out."

America was halfway to the door before he turned around. "Wait, do I still get my award?"

"NO!" England yelled back.

"But I sat and listened to you for a while…I think that should count for something."

"OUT!"

"Fine, fine!" America stuck his tongue out at the island country before ducking out the door. In the end, he did not need an award to know that he was a hero.

Now alone in his kitchen, England tapped his toe on the tiled floor and frowned at nothing in particular. _What now?_ He flipped open his contact book and rifled through the pages. _Eh, I'll ask Japan. He would give me unbiased feedback._ He leaned on a counter and dialed his friend's number. "Moshi moshi," Japan answered, seated on his back porch.

"Hullo there, Japan, England here."

"Igirisu-san, I hope I find you well."

"Quite so, thank you. Listen, I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Is that so?"

England wound the phone cord around his finger nervously. "Here it is: I've been trying to improve my cooking lately and I'm going to make a real bang-up effort tonight. Thing is, I can't taste my own dishes because, you know, I'm a bit biased. I was wondering if perhaps you would be a chap and come have a taste of what I make tonight?"

Many miles away, Japan stiffened and his eyes grew wide. _Ah, we've come to it. This task is far too much for me, even if I do my very best…I must diffuse the situation politely and with great care…_ "Eto…Igirisu-san…I'm sorry, but tonight is a little…inconvenient for me."

The other side of the line was quiet. "Oh, I see. Thank you anyway."

Japan sighed silently with relief. "Again, I express my apologies. The pursuit of self-improvement is a noble one. Do your best, Igirisu-san, and I am sure your efforts will be rewarded."

England was touched by Japan's confidence in him and immediately dismissed the idea that Japan was saying these things in order to thoroughly rid himself of any guilt associated with turning down England's plea for help. "Thank you, Japan. Good night."

"Konbanwa, Igirisu-san." Japan hung up the phone and shivered, knowing that he had successfully avoided certain doom. The occasion should be celebrated with a pickled plum.

_America and Japan are negatives…who is left? I have to have someone taste my food tonight; I feel the cooking genius flowing through me!_ England stared at the phone. A horrible thought slunk over his shoulder. _I suppose…I suppose I could call France…I mean…his food is rather good. He would be able to give sound criticism…_ Ah! Dash it all! Not France! Even though he sought to improve himself, his current state of cooking mediocrity (mediocrity being a generous term to apply) was a failure that would gall him to display to his rival! But…what help was there to be had? Surely none of the other allies would come to his aid, with the possible exception of Russia, and that was the scariest scenario of all. France would have to do. Before dialing France's number, England reached for a bottle of brandy that he kept in his cabinets. He'd be needing that tonight.

The aforementioned French gentleman was seated in a well-lit drawing room, dabbing paint onto an expensive canvas. Having mastered most of the other forms of art, painting tasteful nudes was France's next venture. When the phone rang, he dunked his paintbrush into a glass of water and picked up the receiver. "Bonjour, you 'ave reached ze 'ouse of love. Zis is love speaking."

England almost hung up the phone right there, but restrained himself. "Eh, hullo France."

France jumped out of his seat. "Angleterre! What an 'onor! 'ow may I assist you?"

"Funny you should ask that…I do need some help over here. I'm going to cook something tonight."

"Oh no. Do you want me to keep an eye on your 'ouse and call ze fire department when I see flames?"

"No! Bloody…ugh, no, I need someone with good culinary sense to taste the food I make and tell me if it is any good or not."

France laughed heartily. "Ohon hon hon! So zat is it! And you are calling Big Brother?"

"Don't get so excited. It's only because everyone else was busy," England replied testily.

Already pulling on his coat, France acknowledged England's pride with a patronizing "of course" and hung up the phone. This was a rare opportunity that he was loathe to give up. Two things France was overly fond of: food and making fun of England. To mix the two…ah, surely this was bliss in its purest form.

After hanging up with France, England poured himself a shot of brandy. The immediate burning sensation twisted his face unconsciously and he resisted the urge to gasp for breath. How old was this stuff? Wasn't it supposed to get better with age? Another shot was needed, to erase the memory of the first one. As expected, the second dose went down more smoothly. A third and fourth followed, each putting up less of a fight than the previous. He stopped pouring shots when his mouth tasted of shame and enlightenment. _Drunk is the best way to deal with France_, he reasoned to himself.

France suspected England's intoxication long before he caught sight of it. The air was filled with the sounds of a symphony and a pungent, sour smell. _Either he's cooking with brandy (and this will be a much longer night than I anticipated) or he's drinking it._ Rounding the corner into the kitchen, he glimpsed England waving a wooden spoon in the air, conducting an imaginary orchestra. _Drinking it. _The island country squeaked and dropped the spoon when his guest entered his peripheral vision. He twisted to turn off the record player on the counter. "Don't stop on my account, Angleterre, you know 'ow I love good music," France laughed, settling himself on a bar stool. "Almost as much as I love good food, of which I doubt zere will be much tonight."

"Don't start with me, Frog. Just sit with your mouth closed until I tell you to open it; is that so hard?" England replied, flushed from both the brandy and the shock of France's appearance. "Have you not heard of knocking before you enter someone's house?" France simply sat on his stool and smiled at his host, who flitted from counter to counter, retrieving various bottles and cans from shelves. He seemed to gather himself after a minute and turned sheepishly to the other man. "Er, would you like a drink? I don't have any wine but I do have some rather fine scotch…"

"Non," France waved his offer away. "I am fine. You keep doing what you are doing."

England eyed France suspiciously, then shrugged. "Well, don't mind if I indulge a bit," he muttered, pouring into a glass and downing a generous measure of brandy. About an hour passed this way, with England darting about the kitchen, stirring things, tasting mixtures, and drinking. He finally plunked down a plate of curry over rice and a fork in front of his guest. "Done. Taste this."

France twirled the fork before burying it in the food. A simple sniff told him this was going to be no good at all, a hunch quickly confirmed by taste. "Ah, Angleterre, zis food is…well, it is too bland. You are too careful with your use of spices…let yourself be more free and liberal with zem!"

"Eh…is that so…" England was disappointed. He collected the dish from France and scraped the food off of it and into a waste bin. "As you say, I will try again." He cleared his counters and set about the preparations once more. The level of brandy in the bottle near the sink steadily decreased and, at the same rate, so also did England's hesitations. "You're right for once, Frog! I need more flavor! More of everything!" He turned the record player back on and hummed loudly, waving the brandy bottle around in the air.

France had just started to get sleepy (and tired of dodging wayward drops of brandy slung from England's fervent dancing) when a second plate was slid in front of him. The wanna-be chef stood on nervous tiptoes in front of him, eyes slightly out of focus, and slurred out a "bon appetit." The dish smelled deliciously different…more pungent, more aromatic. Could this be…? France lifted a forkful to his lips and bit down. _Mon dieu!_ He thought, looking down at the curry. _Why…zis is…zis is amazing! I've not tasted better since I actually visited India's house!_ _What culinary nirvana!_ He took a few more quick bites before remembering that England was watching his every move.

"Well? What are your thoughts? Tell me!" Big green eyes begged for affirmation.

Fork halfway to his mouth, France stopped. England had just cooked. Even stranger, he had just cooked _well_. What did this mean? This would change everything! How could the world handle such a drastic alteration to the status quo? England cooking well was like…America being humble, or Japan being obnoxious, or Germany becoming a cat lady while Italy did a hard day's work! Could he, France, be responsible for unleashing this force on the world? What if…OH NO…what if England became such a good cook that it was generally agreed upon that his food was better than France's own? Blasphemy! That could not happen! It must not happen! This thing must be stopped in its tracks! There was something that was just…so wrong with all of this. "Angleterre," France began solemnly, "I 'ave terrible news. Your food is…it is no good. You must stop chasing zis dream."

The man before him wilted visibly. "You're bloody joking!" He put his hand in his hands and sighed deeply. "I was so sure that this one was good…I just knew when I tasted it that I had done something right, but…I suppose my instincts are just bollocks after all…" He hid his face for a while before straightening up and reaching to take the plate in front of France. "Sorry for making you eat this rubbish."

France twitched and snatched the plate away from him. "Nonsense. I am so 'ungry zat I am willing to eat even zis. You go ahead and clean up ze rest of your kitchen." He scarfed down the rest of the food on the plate.

So depressed was the smaller country that he didn't even argue. "If you say so. You're right, you know," he added while dunking dishes into the sink and filling it with water. "I've just got to stop trying to cook. It's not good for anyone. I…I guess I'll focus on other hobbies." He sighed again and focused on the dishes.

France frowned at England's languor. "You 'ave many ozzer talents, Angleterre. Keep improving zem. For instance…aren't you into some kind of magic or somezing like zat?"

"Yes, yes, that's true."

"Zere you go! Play, er, work with zat and see what 'appens. Don't forget zat you can always come to Big Brother's 'ouse and 'ave me tutor you on ze fine arts! You are, after all, years behind me culturally. And in just about every other way, actually…" Having finished the entire plate of curry (and successfully kept himself from licking the plate), France stood up, dodged England's glare and took hold of his jacket. "I zink I shall retire now."

England turned around, dried his hands on a towel, dropped the towel and attempted to find it, but was too drunk to bend over without falling on the floor. "Listen, thanks for your help tonight. Even though nothing was accomplished, it means…something to me. Most of the time you're a real wanker, you know, but one rare occasions you can be tolerable."

"Angleterre, if zat was a compliment, it was ze worst one I 'ave ever heard."

England shrugged. "Complimenting you is not a hobby I am willing to work on." With that, he turned around and walked away.

"Ah, you never change," France laughed, heading towards the door and talking to no one in particular. "In 'undreds of years you 'ave remained the same…and zat is ze way I like you." _That is why you scared me tonight. Don't ever change. I never want you to be any different from the way you are right now._

oOoOo

_Not a fan of FrUk usually…but this thought is cute!_


	6. Revolution

_So basically my summer is like "working, working, get home from work, HETALIA LOL I HAVE NO LIFE!"_

_Why can't I, like, study or do something useful with my life?_

_Anyway, new chappie, enjoy and please review!_

FILE #5: Revolution

The hands of the ticking clock on the bedside table beside the sleeping France showed that it was 3:38 in the morning. He was in the midst of a restless dream when he was jarred awake by his front door being savagely beaten. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and sighed deeply. To say that he had not been expecting this for days would be a lie. It was only last weekend that he had signed the Treaty of Alliance, recognizing the United States of America as an independent country and not just as a colony of Great Britain. With shipments of soldiers and weapons underway, it was only a matter of time before England discovered France and America's alliance.

He pulled on a lush housecoat and plushy slippers and made his way tiredly towards the front door. This wasn't going to be fun. He had been intrigued when America had declared independence from England, but never imagined that someone as small and naïve would have a hope of posing a challenge to someone as old and established as the island country. America's victory at Saratoga shocked the other countries, however, and the idea of a possible American triumph took a leap towards becoming a reality. Bolstered by hope, France took the initiative of paying a visit to America to offer his assistance.

Upon closer examination, France realized that America was younger and even worse off than he originally thought; the budding country had little more than sure knowledge of his home terrain and endless passion to aid him in his fight. His stash of weapons was inadequate, his training was pathetic, and his lack of sophisticated uniforms was appalling (probably something he'd learned from England…) America needed money, safe ports for ships, and more men. France, impressed by how far the former colony had pushed himself, agreed to provide as much assistance as he could.

And now it seemed that England had just found out about the whole business.

France cursed quietly to the ceiling, then opened his front door. As predicted, England was standing on his doorstep, bruised and beside himself with anger. France held up his hands. "Now, Angleterre, before you rush into-"

"You. Bastard." England spat, staring at his nemesis with hatred pouring off his body like sweat. "You miserable, contemptible, vile _bastard._ How dare you stick your oversize nose into MY business with MY colonies. How DARE you condone America's treason against the crown."

A weighty choice was before France. He could either slam the door in England's face and go back to bed or he could stay up and try to talk this out. Knowing that England would continue to badger him until satisfied, he realized that confronting the situation head-on was the only viable option if he valued his sanity. Having come to this decision, he stepped back, opened the door wider, and invited England in. "Come, come, 'ave a seat. We will talk."

"Absolutely not," England replied coldly. "I refuse to enter your house."

France sighed. "_Mon Dieu,_ fine, 'ave it your way. Stand in ze doorway forever for all I care. I, 'owever, am going to pull up a chair." He did so, sat in it, and templed his fingers. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. "I believe you came 'ere because you had somezing to say, so say it."

England stood with his lips pressed together for a bit, then asked, "Is it true that you have offered my colony, America, aid with his ridiculous rebellion?"

"Your _former _colony, oui."

England ignored that. "You have offered money, weapons, and men?"

"Oui."

Bushy eyebrows contracted even tighter and the smaller country's fist clenched. His speech was pained, pleading for reason. "Wh-_why_? France…why would you do this..?"

Sighing deeply, France leaned back deeper into his chair. "Ah. Zere are two reasons. First, I agree with Amerique's position in zis matter."

England waved that away. "We'll get back to that later. What's the second reason?"

"Simple. I don't like you, Angleterre."

Silenced by incredulity, England just stood. Finally he regained his voice. "What does that have to do with anything?"

France laughed unpleasantly. "I like making you mad! It's really quite amusing…"

With a fluid motion, England stepped into the house and slammed the door behind himself. "Do you not understand, frog?" He hissed, leaning over to grip the arms of France's chair. France pulled back, unused to the other's proximity. "This isn't about you and me and our stupid bickering. This is about America. What we do right now may very well decide his future and ours."

"Yes, yes, you're right, which is why I stand by 'im. 'e deserves 'is freedom. You…you do not give 'im enough credit, Angleterre. 'e needs room to grow."

"No, he needs guidance and a firm hand," England growled, standing up straight again. "He is a headstrong child who has grown physically but not mentally. He needs direction; direction _I _can give him."

France shook his head. "No. You are wrong. 'ave you talked to 'im lately? 'e 'as plans, good plans, and 'e wants to build a government. You have babied 'im for too long and zis is 'ow 'e chooses to tell you! Let 'im go and 'e will be a country, equal to you (but not quite to me) in every way!"

"He will die." England responded coldly. "That's why I fight. I will not let him unknowingly commit suicide."

"You fight because you are a tyrant in disguise. You like ze power you 'old over 'im. It makes you feel needed, important."

Hot anger blazed through England again and he shouted at his adversary. "You are just jealous that he chose me and not you! You have been jealous since the beginning! Finally, I have something that you do not and you can't handle it!"

France stood up also, red. "Zat is a lie! Tell me, Angleterre, why do you care so much about zis Amerique?"

"He's my colony. My little brother. Of course I care, what are you getting at?"

"Is not Canada, little Matthieu, also your colony?"

"Yes."

"And Hong Kong? India? Australia? Them also?"

"Y-yes, they are. So what?" England backed away from France's advance.

France stopped and smiled at the other. "Zen why do you care so much about Amerique? You 'ave so many colonies, surely it would not matter very much if one of zem defected. I can not see you making such a ruckus over Australia or Canada."

Clearly this thought had never run across England's mind, judging by the way he froze. He thought back to his dealings with his colonies and tried to disprove what France had said, but found that he could not. It was true. America was…different. "Th-that's…hardly pertinent."

"Why Amerique? Is it because you won 'im from me? Does zat make you feel powerful?"

"Bollocks! That's not it at all!" England shouted.

"What is it, zen?"

"He's…he's the most important person to me, all right?" England cried. "With him I feel…whole. Becoming his mentor was the best thing that ever happened to me and I won't stand to see him fall now. I…I can't be without him, can't you see?" He turned his back to France. "No matter how well-intentioned, I will not let someone take him away."

France cocked his head to the side, genuinely surprised. He had not thought that, just maybe, England's intentions and fears were real, that his actions were motivated by more than power lust and greed. What was this? Weakness? Actual affection? What? "You know you could still be friends wiz Amerique even if he was independent," he mentioned timidly. "Just because your relationship isn't country and colony anymore does not mean you must be estranged."

"No." England faced France again and waved a hand, cutting him off. "Even if…even if he survived, it wouldn't be the same. I don't know how to trust him anymore. He won't tell me the reason behind this bloody war; he keeps citing 'freedom' but that's not enough." He walked towards the door but stopped in front of it. "I want him back, safe, under my care. I don't want him to leave me…I care about him more than he could ever suspect, the stupid git!"

France stood and cast about for something to say, but was stopped again by his guest, who spoke once more in front of the door. "I will fight you until I have nothing left, d'you hear? A-and, though he doesn't know what he's doing, the twat, I will fight America because I-I love the boy and that's the truth."

"'e is a man now."

England stepped out the door. "Not to me."

"Angleterre…" France started, but the other was gone. Quietly, he closed the door and put away the chair he had sat in. For a long time he lay in bed, curious and uneasy. "You say you fight because 'e is not a man to you, eh, Angleterre?" He turned on his side and closed his eyes. "Perhaps he fights for ze same reason."

oOoOo

_See that review button down there? You should click it! It will make me super duper happy! Make a poor college kid's day!_


	7. MEIN SAUSAGES

_Yeah, I don't know where this chapter came from. _

_I need a more regular sleeping schedule, I think…_

_Thanks, guys, for sticking with me!_

FILE #6: MEIN SAUSAGES

Germany skewered a bratwurst on a thin stick and propped it against a large rock near the embers of the dying fire. The heat from the smoldering wood would roast it up nice and crispy. That done, he leaned back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes. This island really wasn't such a bad place after all. He had a ration of beer, plenty of sausages, and a fire that he'd worked for hours to build (he'd forgotten his tinderbox). He should be able to smell his bratwurst sizzling by now…why couldn't he smell the bratwurst? He cracked open an eye to see that his lovely little fire had been smothered by a giant metal pot that Italy had plunked down. "Vat are you doing, Italy?" He yelled.

"Ve?" Italy responded. "Making pasta, of course!" He produced a can of salt and poured some of it in the warming water, then stirred it with a wooden spoon.

"Vat? Vere did you get that salt and spoon from? That vasn't in our provisions." Italy shrugged. Germany shook his head and gestured to the fire. "You can't make pasta on the fire like this. You're going to put it out. That pot is too big."

The Italian looked at the pot. "No, I think it's fine." He stoked the fire and made it flame up a little more.

"No, it's not fine. Vere am I supposed to put my sausage?"

"Oh." Italy scooched his pot over an inch. "Do you have room now?"

Germany repositioned the sausage-laden stick over the hottest part of the fire. The sausage got back to cooking and he calmed down. "Japan, do you need the fire also?"

Japan shook his head. "I caught some fish and will eat it raw," he reminded his friend. "with rice." He proffered Germany the bowl to show him its contents. Indeed, mounded in the tiny bowl was rice topped with slices of raw fish.

"Vat? Vere did you get that rice? That vasn't in our provisions, either!" Germany asked, exasperated. Japan shrugged. Germany huffed and checked his sausage to find that it was perfectly browned. He slid it off the stick and onto a plate, then put the plate down on the ground and reached for some beer. Grabbing his beer, he turned back around and screeched in a very un-manly way. "Hey, vere's my sausage? Who took my sausage?" He glared at his two allies and pointed to the empty plate. They looked up from their meals and shrugged. Germany growled in the back of his throat and speared another sausage on the stick he used earlier. He tapped his fingers impatiently as he watched the sausage cook. Finally, the sausage was done and he slid it onto the plate, making sure to brush all remaining sand off. Some grease dripped off and fell onto his uniform. He swore and gestured to Italy. "Hand me a napkin, vill you?" Italy acquiesced happily. Germany wiped the grease off his pants, picked up the plate, and yelled again. "VERE'S MY SAUSAGE?"

Japan and Italy stared at their red-faced companion. "Germany-san, you are making a scene. Please refrain from doing such things," Japan said

Germany shut his mouth against his anger and skewered one more sausage. A vein twitched in his forehead as he leaned it over the fire. He pulled it away from the flames when it was a little burnt and stuck it straight into his mouth to take a bite. It burned his mouth and he gasped, then took a gulp of his beer. After his mouth had cooled, he brought the delicious sausage back up to his mouth to take another bite, but found he could not do so because the stick was empty. Germany made a deep guttural noise and stood up, kicking over Italy's pot in his anger. Italy burst into tears as his second round of pasta fell onto the sand. "Germanyyyy why did you do such a horrible thing? I thought we were friends!"

"I'M NOT FRIENDS VITH ANYVUN UNTIL I FIND MY SAUSAGE!"

Japan held up his hands. "Germany-san! We have not touched your food! Please calm yourself."

Germany continued to rage, Italy continued to cry, and Japan wished that he'd never left his room.

oOoOoOoOo

Meanwhile, not too far away, the Allies were searching through the underbrush for their lost comrade. "How did this happen? I told all of you not to bring alcohol on this mission, aru!" China wailed quietly. "I brought so many snacks it was unnecessary, aru."

"Hey, we don't have that much," America whispered. "I just wanted to bring a little rum, that's all. Something to put in the piña coladas, you know, dude?"

"Pssh," France snickered. "Amerique brought a whole fifth in his bag. Given the size of everything else in America's house, I guess that _is_ a little rum to him."

America waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Yeah, you know _everything's_ bigger in America. But you know what's bigger than my fifth of rum? Your giant bottle of St. Tropezian wine. Yeah, I saw that."

"Guys," Canada said under his breath. "You should be quieter…we tracked the Axis' movements and they will be around here somewhere…"

France waited for Canada to catch up to him, then snaked an arm around his waist, hooking him in closer. "Is _mon_ _Matthieu_ frightened? Shall we cuddle in the midst of this dark and imposing grove of palm trees? I'll keep you warm, hon hon ho-" he was cut off by an elbow in the gut from America.

"Dude. Quit mackin' on my little brother."

Canada sighed. "We're the same age, America…" But, of course, no one heard him.

"I found England!" Russia called in a hushed tone. The Allies rushed over to see him kneeling on a short overhang, pointing below. A merry glow emanated from a fire pit in the sand below the overhang. Three figures were gathered around the pit. One was stomping around, one was rolling about on the sand, and one was just sitting.

China hissed. "Those aren't England, snowbrains, those are the Axis powers, aru!"

Slowly Russia turned to look at the ancient country, a sick smile spread across his face. "England is in the bushes behind the Axis, but talk like that makes me want you to become one with me even more, da! We would have so much fun, the three of us."

A scared China quavered, "E-eh…three of us, aru?"

"Yes. You, me, and my pipe! Kol kol kol kol…" He brandished the section of lead pipe and chuckled.

America, who was nearest Russia, scuttled away as quickly as he dared. "Y'all have fun with that. I'm gonna go grab England." He made his way down the embankment, staying as low as possible so as to avoid being seen by the Axis, who seemed to be calming down. England was spotted lying on his stomach behind a particularly large palm tree. He was shaking and America, afraid that he was hurt or sick, made haste to shimmy up beside him. "England, dude, are you okay?"

As it turned out, England was shaking with laughter. "What? Oh, bloody hell, it's you. Sod off; can't you see I'm having a jolly old time?"

"Man, we've been looking for you for like two hours! We were worried sick! I've got to get you back to base before you do something totally dumb and blow my perfectly-planned mission."

Not bothered in the slightest, England waved America off. "Bugger your mission. I've found something better to do."

"Uh huh…what _are_ you doing?"

"This," England whispered, barely containing his giggles. He grabbed a stick from beside him and showed it to America. Three fat sausages were skewered on the stick. "Every time that git Germany cooked a sausage, I nicked it, I did! He went mental! Made Italy cry and all! I haven't had this much fun since you took down your bedroom curtains for the wash!"

America laughed. "Dude, that's awesome. Let's see if we can…hang on, what are you talking about my curtains? Are you spying on me again?"

England froze. "Ehh…wot?" He pulled out a hip flask and took a swig. "Don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled defensively.

"Give me that," America made a grab for the flask. "You're too drunk already!"

"Am not! You watch what you say, you!" He held it out of America's reach, but rolled over in his intoxication. "I'm the United Kingdom and you are nothing but a wasteland!"

"You're a senile old man who has hallucinations and likes to represent the counter-culture!"

"You can't speak to me like that! I am your elder!" In reality, England's body was only four years older than America's, England's being 23 and America's 19. Even so, the island nation was determined to use his advantages where he had them. As this entire quarrel was located mere feet from the Axis' campsite, it had to be conducted in whispers and hisses. As they couldn't very well stand up and fight, he tussle for the flask resulted in America crawling on top of England so he could reach for it properly. This, of course, enraged (and delighted) the intoxicated England, who couldn't decide whether or not he actually wanted America to get off of him.

oOoOo

Germany rolled his eyes. Italy was curled in his lap, tear streaks down his cheeks. "See, now, I didn't mean to kick over your vater pot. I vas just upset over my sausages."

Italy sniffed. "Ve…Germany can be so scary!"

"…sorry." The burly blonde man looked up towards the stars. Ye gods, why him?

Japan interrupted them. "Ah…Germany-san…I feel that you ought to know…America-san and England-san are in the bushes." His face turned red. "They appear to be having some sort of…tryst."

"England and America? Vhere did you say they vere?" Looking in the direction of Japan's pointing finger, he realized that the two Allies were right behind the tree where he had been sitting before. Maybe they knew what happened to his sausages! Wait a minute… Germany stood up suddenly, dumping Italy unceremoniously off his lap.

oOoOo

Both countries had a hold on the flask and were trying to wrench it away from each other. America had the upper hand over England, being sober, until England flipped them over and knocked the wind out of him momentarily. Still, the Brit was very drunk and America soon gained sole control over the container of alcohol. England whined softly. "Oooh, you big bully, you hand that over to me this instant. That's my property!"

America raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? You want it that badly? What would you do to get it back?"

Cold chills ran down England's back. "W-what do you mean?"

"I mean, what would you do to make me give back your flask?"

"Speak plainly, you tosser," England huffed.

America grinned. "What I'm trying to say is this: if you want your booze back, you're gonna have to smooch it from me."

Silence. England had to keep from shrieking. "WHAT?" he whispered fiercely.

"That's right. Anytime you're ready," America replied. "Just one kiss."

"You bloody…bleeding…rotten…piece of rubbish…damned…" England floundered, still straddling the younger country. "I ought to really punch you right in the nose for even suggesting such a…vile thing." America just waggled his eyebrows. England groused for a second more, made all the more upset by America's putting of his arms behind his head so as to lay more comfortably. "You…I…fine. I'll do what I must."

America gave a start. "You what? Really?" _He _must_ like me! Why else would he risk his dignity over something as silly as alcohol?_

Blushing furiously, England nodded, looking anywhere but at America. "Yes, all right, one bloody kiss, but that's all!" America had gone quite serious and was now just watching him, waiting. Heart thumping, palms sweating, and growing redder by the minute, England lowered himself to America's face. He felt the other man's breath on his cheeks and made the mistake of looking down into his eyes. Even in the dimness, lit only by clear moonlight and the Axis' fire through the brush, he could see America's bright blue eyes looking up at him with shock. An echo of the trembling fear England felt was reflected in the eyes below him. Slowly, England grew nearer to America. Their eyes closed in anticipation and their lips ghosted over each other, each savoring the delicious moment of tension before the kiss…

"ENGLAND! AMERICA! YOU TOOK MY SAUSAGES! I'M GONNA BEAT THEM OUT OF YOU!" Germany roared on the other side of the brush.

Immediately the two Allies sprang up and took off running as fast as they could, Germany in pursuit behind them. "DAMMIT! WHY THEN?" America yelled, deflating from the excitement of almost kissing England and filling with indignation instead. "CAN'T I GET A BREAK ALREADY?"

Germany chased them halfway back to their campsite before he stopped, tired from lack of food (his sausages had all been stolen.) The other two kept running until they were safely back with the rest of the Allies. After they caught their breath, they explained what had happened, omitting, of course, the part about the near-kiss. Both became mysteriously mute at that part and refused to say anything more.

France, naturally, guessed that there was more to their tale, but said nothing. England, drunk and dizzy from his run, crashed in his tent. The other Allies sat around their own fire, looking at the stars. "I checked my bottle of rum," America broke in suddenly. "and there wasn't any missing."

"Neither was there any missing from my wine," France added. "How did Angleterre get so drunk anyway?"

"Oh, I let him have some of my vodka," Russia replied happily, suddenly holding a gargantuan bottle of vodka that put America's and France's alcohol to shame. Even Russia had to hold it with two hands. "I thought it would be fun, da."

The Allies stared. "Dude. Where'd you pull that freaking monster vodka bottle from?" America asked.

"The same place I keep my chainsaw," Russia replied cheerfully.

Silence.

"Right. I think I'll go to bed now," China said hurriedly, rushing off to the tent he shared with France, who followed close behind him.

America also ran off to he and England's tent. Canada, who was forced into tenting with Russia, just decided that maybe, if he sat still on his rock long enough, Russia wouldn't notice him. It worked and Russia soon left, _kol kol kol_ing to himself.

Canada nearly fell of the rock with relief. _Maybe I'll just go join the Axis…_he thought. After all, he did like sausage. With maple syrup, of course.

oOoOo

_This might be the last chapter unless something awesome smacks my mind. What do YOU think England might do when drunk?_


	8. Fort Maunsell

_I couldn't abandon the story. I really couldn't._

_So here's more._

_Happy Independence Day to everyone! Sorry, Brits._

FILE #7: Fort Maunsell

The morning of September 2nd, 1967 dawned crisp with the whisper of oncoming winter. Fog hung heavy over the streets surrounding England's house and cats curled under any low shelter they could find, their fur hanging lank and damp on their backs. England was swimming in a deep sleep, dreaming of loud noises, bright lights, and clouds of smoke; products of the war he had just (with the help of the Allies) won. Indeed, World War II was newly over and won, yet he found that he could not stop his dreams from reliving the terror. Tonight's dream was particularly bad; the image of America's face, returning from the front lines, swam before his eyes. The dark blonde man's eyes told of the horrors he had witnessed before his mouth could find the words. All England could do was reach to clasp his hand in silent gratitude for the fact that he was still alive.

Still in the hold of deep sleep, England felt something moving on his skin. Slowly he surfaced from his dream, America's face fading from view to be replaced by another, unfamiliar mug. He realized that whoever the new face belonged to was poking him in the cheek. Groggily he swatted at the hand and sat up, rubbing his face. God, but his head hurt. What was he doing last night?

"Well, it's about time you're up," sang a cheerful, childish voice.

England opened his eyes finally and found himself face-to-face with a young boy of about eleven or twelve, with soft medium-blonde hair and wide blue eyes. The boy, slightly surprised to see England awake, backed up a step and grinned. England stared at him and demanded "Who the devil are you?"

The boy frowned. "Why, I'm Sealand, Peter Kirkland! Don't you know your own son?"

England froze, then spluttered, "W-what? What nonsense are you spouting? I have no son, and certainly not one as cheeky as you!"

Sealand put his hands to his chest. "You do too! I've been growing now for quite some time and I am finally ready to declare myself as a country!"

"A country?" England asked, even more surprised. _I thought all the land in the world was claimed…_ "Where is your land?"

Sealand seemed thrilled by the question and very eager to answer it. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a map of the coast of Great Britain. After doing a few calculations in his head, he scrawled an 'X' on the map and handed it over to the confused man. "Right here. It's not very big, only about 6,000 square feet, but it has a lot of heart! Do not underestimate it!"

Squinting at the paper, England couldn't make sense of what he was seeing. Sealand had drawn his 'X' in the ocean, about seven nautical miles off of his own coast. "Young boy, there can't be a country where you've indicated; it's the middle of the ocean. There's nothing there but water and the old Naval sea fort Maunsell from the war." Seeing the child's enthusiastic nods and grins, England suddenly got suspicious. "Wait a bloody minute. You're not…you don't have anything to do with that fort, do you?"

"It's not a fort anymore, it's Sealand!" The boy spread his arms and skipped about. He was dressed in a tidy sailor outfit, complete with waterproof boots and a sailor's beret.

"Oh no you don't!" England said, standing up despite the dizziness in his head. He had been laying on the floor of the front parlor, no doubt a result of last night's post-war merriment. What had happened last night, anyway? He couldn't remember for the life of him. "You can't declare that a country! That's my fort!"

Sealand scowled and crossed his arms, drawing back from the man whom he thought was going to be his greatest ally. "Wrong, jerk! I'm just out of your territory! I'm in international waters! You abandoned me and my land! You're a terrible mother!"

"MOTHER?" England yelled. "You're mental!"

"Am not! You created my land like a mother, so I must be grateful to you, even though I am an independent country now!" The boy was yelling back in England's face. "See? I even have a British accent, though now I'm ashamed to be related to you, you British jerk!"

"That's so, eh? Well, then, who's your father?"

"Easy!" Sealand answered triumphantly. "Him!" He pointed to the floor.

England followed the line of his finger and saw that America was asleep on the floor near where he himself had been sleeping. He gave a start and hopped backwards. "WHAT?" He didn't worry about his volume; the great lump America could sleep through anything; he'd nearly slept through World War II. "Why him? Anyone but him! Well, he and France! Anyone but those two!"

"I got my idea of independence from him and therefore claim him as my father," Sealand explained calmly. "See? I have his eyes."

Sure enough, Sealand's wide blue eyes did echo those of America, especially when he was a tyke, though the new kid's were perhaps a touch more green than his "father's." Now that he looked closely, he noticed with horror that Sealand had big, bushy eyebrows, exactly like his. "Oh no, no, no," he moaned, a pleading note in the undertones of his voice. "this can't be right…I mean…America and I…we didn't…we've never…I think I would have known if we'd…you know…_made a child_…" _DEAR GOD WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT? What did I miss? I'm never drinking again!_

"Pssh," Sealand waved a hand. "You're sure thick for an established country. Countries don't reproduce like humans. I claim you as my parents but we aren't actually related by blood. Do they not have education in your land? Maybe I should rethink having you as my mother."

"Yes! Rethink it! You should definitely rethink it!"

"No…on second thought…we're far too close. You're just going to have to stay my mother after all." England facepalmed. Sealand continued. "Now that that's settled, take me to one of your world meetings and introduce me to all the other countries! I'm going to assert myself!"

Beginning to gather up the clothes and gin bottles strewn about the floor, England shook his head. "Absolutely not."

"What? Why not?" Sealand demanded angrily.

A vein began to pulse in England's forehead. "Because you're not a bloody country, that's why. You are an abandoned sea fort from World War II!"

"Am not! I'm just as much a country as you! I've a Crown Prince (though he's currently for sale) and a flag and currency and all!"

"Bugger off!" England grumped over to the slumbering America and kicked him in the side, more gently than he expected. "Hey, you great bumbling git, wake up!"

America stirred and stretched, yawning hugely. "Whazzat?"

"I said get up! You shouldn't sleep on other people's floors!"

Another groan, then "Yeah, yeah, I'm _getting_ up if you'll _shut_ up." America pulled himself to his feet and brushed dust off his clothes. "Man, last night was a PARTY! Hoorah for winning the war!" He noticed Sealand. "Hey, who's the kid?"

Sealand saluted America. "I'm Sealand! I'm a new country! England's my mother and you're my f-" His word was cut off by a panicked England hoisting him up and tossing him into a closet and blocking the door closed.

America looked at England with shock. "Mother? You have a kid? W-with who?" He looked as if his heart had been ripped open.

"BLOODY NO ONE, THAT'S WHO." England shouted. "He's not my son! He's not even a country! He's a bloody war fort that I should have blown to bits years ago!"

America's face registered a ridiculous amount of relief. "Well," he said stupidly, breathing hard. "Glad to hear that." He pulled himself together and cleared his throat. "After all, you'd totally feed him your scones and kill him, poor little dude."

"Oi! You wouldn't be any better! You'd feed him so much saturated fat he'd have a heart attack before he was eighteen!"

"Hey, I eat hamburgers all the time and I'm plenty healthy!" America thumped his chest. "I'm so healthy that I just bailed your Britishness out of the war!"

England sprang at the larger country angrily. "Your arse just earned a date with my boot!" Unwittingly, he let Sealand out of the closet behind him.

Sealand tumbled out, jumped up, and dusted himself off. "I've heard quite enough of your rough talk, misters! I don't think countries ought to behave like you two and I intend to make my thoughts known at the meeting today."

America looked at him more closely. "Hey, dude, your eyes look just like mine! Righteous!"

"I know!" Sealand exclaimed, eyes sparkling. "That's because you're-"

"NO THEY BLOODY DO NOT, NOW GOODBYE!" England shrieked, shoving America out the front door. He then whirled on Sealand. "Listen here, you! You leave off this nonsense about America being your father, d'you hear! If I ever catch wind that you have told him of it, I swear to the throne I'll blow your bleeding fort and wanking Crown Prince all the way to Atlantis!"

Sealand paled, but shook his mini fist in England's face. "You're such a jerk! Fine! I'm leaving!" He shoved past England and strode out the door. "Oh, you'll rue the day that you ever threatened Sealand! I'm going to be a great power; greater than you! I'm the mighty Sealand and you're nothing but a great big bully with ratty hair and a big dumb-" England slammed the door.

"What a nightmare," he moaned. Someone knocked on the door. England swung it open to see Sealand on his front doorstep. "Bugger off!"

The child stuck out his lip. "Listen…can I have twenty pounds?"

"What for?"

"I…I'm hungry."

Cantankerous though he was, England couldn't help but feel bad for Sealand. "I…sure." He found his wallet, pulled out the money, and handed it to the blonde boy.

Sealand walked a few steps away from the house, then turned around and yelled "Hah! I got you good, you jerk! I have plenty of food at my house! I'm going to take these pounds and build an army and take you over! You just watch!"

"As if!" England shouted back, slamming the door again. Taunts continued to come from outside his door and he wrenched it open again. "And get off my lawn!"

"You'll bow down to me one day, England Jerk! You're not my mum anymore!"

"Go play with France!"

…and so began (and simultaneously ended) England's short career as a mother. His troubles with Sealand, however, was not to be disposed of so quickly.

oOoOo

Incidentally, France had been at the party and was still lying in the front parlor, having heard everything. His eviction was somewhat ruder than America's had been, as England dumped a whole pot of cold tea on his head in irritation, then kicked him out the door.

_What happened last night?_ The shivering Brit asked himself, pulling at his hair.

He never found out.

oOoOo

_Nice to meet you, Sealand! Do your best!_


End file.
